


You Will still Be Here Tomorrow But Your Dreams May Not

by Chronicler



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Office, Angst, Boredom, Bottom Zayn, Canon Queer Character of Color, Character Study, Class Differences, Daddy Kink, Desperation, Dirty Talk, First Meetings, Hook-Up, M/M, Muslim Character, Oral Sex, Piercings, Porn, Punk, Tattoos, Top Liam, pansexual characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:33:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chronicler/pseuds/Chronicler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam is a bored and disillusioned advertising executive who meets a beautiful young man at an office party. The beautiful young man in question, new intern Zayn, had just wanted to get out of there, and now he just wants Liam. Then they go up to Liam's office...</p><p>AKA Sugar Daddy Liam and twink Zayn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Will still Be Here Tomorrow But Your Dreams May Not

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Mayra, Lynn, Vanessa, Kayla, Kierra, Lini & Courtney for beta reading.
> 
> For Mayra, inspired by her idea.
> 
> Title taken from the song Father And Son by Cat Stevens.
> 
> Feedback would be very gratefully received.
> 
> I still keep making changes to this story...

[Father and son ~ Cat Stevens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JCQVnSOFqfM) ****

****

_“Age does not protect us from love. But love, to some extent, protects us from age” ~ Anais Nin_

~~~

Liam downs another drink as he surveys the room, thinking to himself that this may quite possibly be the most boring party _ever_ to be held _anywhere,_ in the _entire_ history of the universe. At least the booze is expensive, and plentiful, but it wouldn’t do to get too obviously drunk. He is meant to be a responsible adult after all. Even though he sometimes feels like he is just faking it and waiting for someone to notice.

Pulling loose the stifling knot in his tie and opening the top button of his shirt, he leans back against the wall, resting his head against it, and shuts his eyes with a slight grimace – why can’t he just leave? But he knows why really. Appearances. Always _fucking_ appearances. He grabs another glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waitress and drinks it too quickly.

He also knows that he should go and talk to people, not just loiter like a well-dressed ghost haunting the place, unseen and unheard. He should socialise. Mingle. Network. Whatever today’s meaningless buzzword is. But he can’t fake it, not tonight. He feels old, and tired, as he wonders – _how the fuck is this my life?_

The music being played is grating on his nerves too, if it can even be called music; it is as fake as the people milling around him. They would probably laugh at him for his music collection, from rock classics on vinyl, to the latest R&B on his iPod, but at least he is passionate about _something_ ; do those around him even remember how that feels?

Not that he is a bright young thing anymore – well into his thirties, with his forties a threatening spectre on the horizon. How did that even happen? Time slips through his fingers like water; his life trickles away, and he just can’t hold on to it. It’s as though he closes his eyes, and when he opens them whole years have vanished, and he is stuck in the same place, watching the world whirl around in front of him; like he is seeing it all through a window, his hands pressed against the glass, but no one on the other side can hear him.

His parents are proud of him at least, and that still matters, he supposes. He is a local boy made good, gone south to the bright lights of the big city, leaving the midlands far behind. But it’s not what he dreamt of, alone in his childhood bedroom, escaping into music. He has the money, the car, the successful career, all the things he is supposed to want. But it is cold and empty. His family keep asking him why he has no wife and children, and he replies, each time, that he just hasn’t met the right woman yet. It goes unsaid that he hasn’t met the right man yet either, or person-of-indeterminate-gender. They know, they just don’t want to hear it. The _real_ him, beneath the expensive suits and well-practiced air of confidence, always remains unspoken.

Tonight’s party isn’t even for him. He didn’t land the big account, the new partner did – eager to please and make his name, supplanting the old guard. He vaguely plots stabbing the boy wonder to death with a letter opener. At least then he could leave this study in mundane niceties, be led away in handcuffs by well-built police officers in their pristine uniforms, then thrown into jail with angry but misunderstood young men, who need his protection and experience to mould them…

It occurs to him, given his current line of thought, that he may have been watching too much porn lately, in the long nights he spends alone in his ridiculous modernist flat. Perched high above the city, looking down on the world, as though he has any right to look down on anyone, has any idea what he’s doing.

He knows that he really shouldn’t… but he wanders unobtrusively over to a table and grabs another drink. If someone comes over and tries to make small talk with him, at least he has something to drown himself in. He sighs and checks his watch – solid gold and designer, of course – finding that it is still too early to make a graceful exit, then studies the room again, for something of interest, _anything_. And he finds it. Or rather, it appears to have found him.

The most beautiful young man that he has ever seen in his life, appears to be watching him intently. He looks around himself in case there is someone more interesting nearby that could have captured this lovely young creature’s attention – but no, there are only other well-heeled drones around, laughing like they almost mean it, which perhaps they do, but no one who looks significantly more enticing than himself.

Taking a sip of his drink he glances surreptitiously back at the youth, whose eyes sparkle with amusement, his lips quirking as he stifles a smile. He realises the young man must have seen exactly what he was thinking, the doubts that plague him. _Well fuck you,_ he thinks to himself, _fuck your youth, fuck your perfect skin, and perfect hair, and perfect body. Yes, just fuck you…_

Biting his lower lip contemplatively, he steels himself and looks the young stranger in the eyes in retaliation. He recognises the look he finds shining there. It’s been a while, but he still knows when he is being checked out. The young man licks his lips and looks him over, the assessing gaze caressing every inch of his body. It is devastatingly seductive, but there is nothing contrived about it, no artifice; he has the unthinking sensuality of youth, but with such a knowing look in his eyes. As though he hasn’t seen everything yet, but he will. Oh he will.

He knows that if he has any sense he will look away, get through this evening, and then go home alone. He knows that, he does. And he tells himself it in no uncertain terms. That nothing good can come of this. He does not need the drama, and it is too soon for a midlife crisis. The boy is too young, too pretty, and obviously doesn’t fit in here: the sides of his jet-black hair are almost shaved, the top styled improbably high, with a deliberately provocative blond streak bleached into the centre. Multiple studs glint in his ears as the they catch the light, another just visible at the side of his nose, and small silver balls mark the ends of the metal piercing through an eyebrow; he’s even wearing eyeliner for fucks sake. Tattoos peek out intriguingly from the cuffs of his ill-fitting suit, above the assortment of rings on his long, sensitive-looking fingers, which are mottled with the bright remnants of what look like paint stains. He appears to be mixed race, white and Asian perhaps, hard to say – he wants to tell himself that doesn’t matter anymore, but he knows it sometimes does. The impression given is almost punk, if that is even still a thing.

The boy isn’t even trying to look like he cares about this place, this cavernously large conference room forged from glass, steel, and conformity, filled with people who would probably hurry past him nervously if they passed him on the street. It seems as though he is here alone – loitering like a splash of vibrant colour in a monochrome painting, even in his plain dark suit that looks as if it has seen better days. The mandarin collar on his slightly less offensive shirt at least negating the need for a presumably ugly tie. He wonders what the boy’s usual clothes are like; probably a lot more stylish when he is in his element.

So he does the only thing that he can possibly do under the circumstances. He quickly finishes his drink, grasps two full glasses, gathers his nerve, then goes forth to brave the torment of youth and beauty.

“Hi,” he says as his brilliant opener – he blames being very slightly inebriated.

Taking the glass that is being offered to him and sipping from it, the young man smiles, still looking a little too amused and beguiling, then replies with an admittedly charming, working-class northern accent, “Thanks. I’m Zayn, and you are?”

 _Drunk. Stifled. Overwhelmed. Horny. In love at first sight. Too old for this shit._ “Liam.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Liam,” somehow it comes across as both flirtatious and sardonic. “I’ve been watching you for a while, you look as bored as I feel. Wanna get out of here?”

“… You don’t waste any time.” Liam is both flattered and a little out of his comfort zone.

Zayn shrugs, “I don’t like crowds. I have nothing to say to these people. And you look like you could use the company.”

Liam bristles at the suggestion that he’s lonely, true or not. No, he does not want pity. Especially from this boy who doesn’t even know him, and is too young to know how wearing life can be, how weary it can leave one.

The boy in question must read all that in his expression, because before Liam can respond, he quickly adds, “Look man, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that; I’m the one that needs rescuing here. I can’t even speak to anyone for more than five minutes without getting nervous. I don’t know how I thought I could do… _this."_ He waves his hand vaguely, taking in their surroundings _. “_ Just get me out of here and I will be _very_ grateful.” He leans close as he finishes speaking, his tone conspiratorial, and his small smile full of tempting promises.

Liam wages a brief war with himself – though he knows the outcome is a foregone conclusion. “My office is upstairs. I could… give you a tour?”

“Perfect.” Zayn agrees, smiling that small, secret smile again. “Lead the way…”

So he does. After depositing their glasses on a nearby table, he leads the young man to the lift, then a short and slightly awkward ride later, down a corridor to his executive office at the far end; he had of course snared the biggest and most prestigious in the building – never let it be said that there is a status symbol he hasn’t hidden behind.

Like the rest of the building, his office is scrupulously modern. Sculptured from glass and chrome, nothing is out of place – no personal touches to mar its perfect design. He sometimes feels that were he to disappear, the next person appointed to his post could take over this room without a single change being made, and he would have left nothing of himself behind, other than the comic books surreptitiously hidden under some paperwork in a drawer. The pristine whiteness of it is almost clinical, the large leather chair behind his desk one of the few concessions to comfort over style.

As he ushers Zayn inside a little guiltily, he feels like such a cliché: a bored businessman picking up a young hustler at a company cocktail party. No, that isn’t fair, he doesn’t really know what Zayn is. He should ask… Or perhaps he shouldn’t? He has done a lot of stupid things, in a lot of questionable places, but this is a new one for him, and he is unsure of the correct etiquette. He suspects that he is now a dirty old man – that, as the saying goes, he has become the kind of person his parents warned him about. At least he is sure that Zayn is legal, but legal and advisable are not necessarily the same thing. 

After a moment’s hesitation he locks the door behind them. Better to face his companions smirk than be caught doing whatever they are going to do. Which may still be nothing of course. Taking off his jacket he hangs it by the door, before slipping his cufflinks into his pocket and rolling up his shirtsleeves to just below his elbows – needing to feel as unrestricted as possible, trying to create a relaxed atmosphere that he doesn’t really feel. “Do you want a drink?” he asks as he pours himself a glass of scotch from his discreet drinks cabinet. He shouldn’t really be mixing wine with spirits, but what’s one more broken rule at this point?

“No thanks, I shouldn’t; I’m a good Muslim boy.”

There is both a mischievousness and a cutting edge to his words; it is provocative either way, and Liam isn’t sure how to take it – he suspects that he is being toyed with. There is something feline about Zayn, both seductive and terrifying; he feels as if he is a mouse, offering himself up as prey, rather than the predator, so far at least. He doesn’t even try to respond, instead walking over to the window that spans the full wall, floor to ceiling, as he takes a steadying drink. Looking down over the shimmering lights of the city, the stars mirroring them above, he instead asks, “What are you doing here?”

He glances back briefly to see Zayn leaning against his desk. Suggestive is the only way to describe his pose: perched on the edge, his hands flat behind him on the polished wood, legs stretched out in front and slightly parted invitingly, as he counters the question with one of his own, “You don’t think I belong here?”

“Not really.” Liam replies, looking back at his hard-earned view, not bothering to lie.

He can hear Zayn’s smile in the tone of his voice as he answers, presumably appreciating Liam’s honesty. “Depends what you mean by ‘here?’” he muses. “I moved to London for uni… and I needed to get away from home for a bit. I'm here in this building because I just got offered a job as an intern in your creative department. I haven’t even started yet and they invited me to this party – wanted to see my ‘people skills’ I guess. It wasn’t going well, obviously. It doesn’t matter, I’ve been thinking about backing out anyway, it’s not like I wanna get stuck in advertising.”

A bitter chuckle escapes Liam, before he contains it behind more alcohol. Yes, heaven forbid Zayn end up like him.

He hears Zayn sigh and move towards him saying, “I’m not doing too well at this either, am I?” as he smoothes his hand from Liam’s shoulder down his arm, letting it linger for a moment on his bicep, fondling the surprisingly well defined muscle he must feel under the finely tailored cotton.

“You’re doing fine,” Liam reassures him, taking another drink, still looking down at the city far below, as the first drops of a long threatened rain start to hit the glass with a muffled patter and stream down it, washing everything clean. The lights of the city blur until they look like an impressionist painting, as though he and his guest could be anywhere in the world, or out of it. As he stands there with Zayn behind him waiting expectantly, he realises his own power in this situation. If nothing else, he has the advantage of experience.

Sounding a little nervous in the silence, Zayn plunges on, “This isn’t what you wanted to do with your life?”

Liam shrugs, “I studied music, came here to get into the industry. Then from that, an opportunity came up in advertising that I just couldn’t refuse. I have done well at it, I suppose.”

“Obviously. But it doesn’t make you happy? It’s not too late, you could do something else.” He can imagine Zayn’s easy shrug. 

Feeling a stab of resentment that he knows isn’t fair, Liam wants to tell him that things look so simple when you have nothing – except your whole life in front of you. When you still think you can take on the whole world and win. That life gets more complicated; he has commitments, bills to pay, a lifestyle to which he has grown accustomed, and fears that have crept up on him and taken hold, that he just can’t shake. That it’s too late for him to start again. 

But he doesn’t think this is the time for his life story. And tonight now seems rife with possibilities that he had given up on. 

Brushing past Zayn, he walks over to his desk to put down his now empty glass. He grabs the remote while he’s there, aiming it vaguely at the picture window with all the false casualness he can muster. At the push of a button, the venetian blinds swish closed, whispering of guilty secrets and hidden assignations, hiding the rooms occupants from prying eyes. Ever the master of avoidance, he turns the conversation back to Zayn as he asks, “If you don’t want to take the internship, why have you even come?” 

Zayn pauses for a moment, before answering with obvious ambivalence, “I might take the job, I dunno – I need the money, and it’d look good on my CV.” 

Liam looks him over as he points out, “You didn’t even try to make a good impression tonight.”

Grinning at him, Zayn raises his chin slightly as he throws back, “Fuck you: I got out of bed, shaved, and borrowed a suit. That took a supreme amount of effort on my part,” but there is no malice behind his words. “I figured there’d be free food if nothing else,” he concedes, then adds, “And I’m glad I came now,” his words laced with implications as he looks pointedly at Liam.

No one talks to Liam openly like this anymore. Everything is always guarded and calculated, consumed by the politics of business and the pressure of money. He finds himself smiling fully, without holding back, for the first time in a long time, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that he knows makes him look like a boy again himself, one of the reasons he has learnt not to do it.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a really adorable smile? It’s contagious.” Zayn asks him, rubbing his own bottom lip with his index finger – it looks like a contemplative, self-comforting gesture – as he returns Liam’s smile with an unnerving fondness.

“Not for a very long time,” he says it with more wistfulness than he meant to, and the silence after his words stretches a little too long, as the two men stand and just look, a little lost in each other. Zayn’s gaze has an intensity that Liam isn’t used to; no one has ever looked at him like this before, like they really see him for who he is, and can’t look away.

Flirting never was Liam’s strong suit, some of the subtler points of human interaction lost on him; he long ago learnt to curb his excitedly nervous outpouring of words, but he knows that this is a hook up, and he is meant to do something.

As if reading his thoughts, or at least having the same ones, Zayn asks, “So, are you ever gonna kiss me?” Narrowing his eyes as he says it, almost a flinch – which Liam thinks, in Zayn at least, is a sign of concentration, sincerity, and perhaps nervousness.

He realises this is what he’s been waiting for – permission. Closing the small distance between them, he tilts Zayn’s chin up with the edge of his finger, looking into his eyes – the younger man a few inches shorter than him, though he must be fully-grown. The boy’s face is so finely sculpted, Liam wishes he could write sonnets about the sharp line of his cheekbones, the soft curve of his lips, the way his eyes shift colour with the light, a dance of brown like his own, moss green, and amber like a tiger, but the only words he has are, “You are so fucking beautiful.” 

Zayn starts to open his mouth, to deny it Liam suspects, so he tells him to, “Shhhh,” as he leans down and kisses him. It is soft and gentle at first, but soon deepens as Zayn pushes against him, making a needy sound as Liam lets his hands slide down to the boy's ass, pulling him even closer, letting him feel that Liam is hardening for him already – that the anticipation has been driving him crazy. 

He pushes Zayn’s jacket off, letting it fall to the ground, figuring it is already a lost cause, as he sucks a mark onto Zayn’s tempting throat, although he knows he shouldn’t. The boy smells good, of expensive cologne that Liam hopes he saved up for and bought himself, not a gift from some other lecherous admirer.

Gripping Zayn’s hips he manoeuvres him over to the desk, pausing only to push his chair out of the way. He easily lifts Zayn up onto the smooth surface, pushing forward between his willingly spread thighs and kissing him again, groaning as he feels Zayn’s hardness against his own. He feels like a teenager again himself, as he rocks against Zayn helplessly.

As they kiss, Zayn’s long, nimble fingers tug Liam’s shirt free, undoing the lower buttons; his hands snaking underneath, exploring. It seems to turn him on even more, as his fingers run through the hair over the hard muscles of Liam’s abdomen, following it as it runs uninterrupted up the centre of his torso, before spreading over his well-defined chest.

Liam knows that he is attractive, handsome even – as his youth had faded it had been replaced with a rugged maturity that he had hoped would quiet his insecurities, though it hasn’t entirely. His lingering doubts about himself have leant themselves to an unpredictability and anger that he tries to keep hidden, and that shocks people when it emerges. He goes to the gym almost daily, working out his aggression, and enjoying the quiet power his strength gives him, determined to never again be the shy, bullied boy he had once been. Though Zayn’s interest in him, his unabashed fascination, is still a puzzle. 

Until he hears, “Daddy,” whispered quietly, mouthed with a warm breath against his neck. And now he knows – knows what Zayn sees in him. Wants from him. Couldn’t get from experimental fumblings with those his own age. And he finds that he wants to give it so badly that he aches for it.

“Shit,” Liam murmurs, not quite knowing how to handle this, before kissing the boy in his arms hard, claiming his mouth. He hopes that he can hold out, and not come right now without even getting his dick out. The alcohol is catching up with him, everything a little soft and hazy, his inhibitions fleeing in hopeless defeat; this has to be the hottest moment of his entire fucking life.

Making a frustrated sound in his throat, the boy pushes Liam back so that he can hop down from the desk. He steers Liam towards his chair – big and black, designed to remind people that he is in charge. Liam swivels it around blindly, not letting go of the boy in his arms, and sits down, Zayn climbing into his lap, his hands gripping Liam’s shoulder and the back of his neck respectively – bringing their lips back together.

Liam is struck by how much smaller Zayn is than him. Now that he has Zayn settled on him, and can feel the weight of him, he is surprised by how slight he is. Though he has lean muscle and a wiry strength to him, his bones are sharp as they dig into Liam’s thighs, and prominent under his fingertips as he pulls Zayn’s shirt loose from his trousers. Liam unbuttons it clumsily in his haste, and pushes his hands underneath, with an overwhelming desire to touch every part of him. He runs his hands over the taut skin of the boy's back and smooth chest, then concentrates his touch harshly on Zayn’s nipples. He almost pulls back to map the myriad tattoos he catches glimpses of littering Zayn’s torso, but he couldn’t stop now if he tried.

“I want you in my mouth.” Zayn breathes the words against Liam’s lips, managing to squeeze his hand between them to fondle Liam’s dick, which is pressed uncomfortably against the restricting fabric of his trousers, a damp patch seeping through from the pre-come dribbling out in anticipation.

Beyond words at this point, Liam’s eyes squeeze closed for a moment as he nods urgently.

Zayn slides off his lap, then drops to his knees, pushing Liam’s thighs apart and moving between them. His hands shake a little as he unbuckles Liam’s belt, then mutters an impatient curse when the zip catches as he tries to lower it; Liam reaches down and steadies his hands, helping him. Finally Zayn pulls Liam’s dick out from his boxers, smirking as he looks up at him from under his insanely long, dark lashes, a ravenous glint in his eyes. He spits into his own hand, before wrapping it around Liam, dragging down the foreskin easily, and tonguing at the slit with maddening little licks of the clear liquid that is oozing out excitedly.

Liam struggles to not just push the teasing mouth down and fuck up into its heat. He can tell that the boy knows what he’s doing, has done this before. He is relieved that he isn't corrupting Zayn, though he feels a stab of jealousy at the thought of him on his knees for other people, and gives into his urge to dominate him. Threading his fingers into the dark hair, he shoves the boy down onto his dick a little too roughly, but it feels so fucking good – the mouth hot and wet, stretched around him, barely able to take his girth – as Zayn struggles to draw a breath. 

He lets Zayn set his own rhythm now, as he pulls on the hair wrapped around his fingers, soft and silky under the products that help it defy gravity. The boy seems to like it, making appreciative noises around Liam’s dick, he can feel the vibrations right down to his balls, so he pulls as hard as he can without dislodging the warm mouth.

Liam finds himself murmuring a constant flow of broken words as Zayn takes him in, over and over; it is a mystery to him how he knows what to say, but he does. It pours out of him, everything he wants to do to this boy, everything he wants to be for him. He hadn’t known that he had such filth in him, but he knows it now. Telling Zayn that he wants to taste him, eat him out, then fuck him until the boy can’t even remember that anyone else has ever touched him. That he wants to keep Zayn tied to his bed, a beloved pampered pet. That he wants to own him.

Liam pauses to curse at the loss as Zayn removes his mouth – but it is only long enough for the boy to wrench open his own trousers, shove them down to his thighs with his underwear, lick the full length of his hand, and get it around his own cock, blushed dark and leaking as it pushes up towards his stomach. Quickly taking Liam back into his mouth, Zayn makes the momentary inattention up to him with his eager tongue, as he thrusts wantonly into his own fist.

He doesn’t quite manage to take Liam down his throat, the way they always do in the porn movies Liam spends too much time watching, whilst jerking himself off in his huge empty bed. But he is enthusiastic and determined as he suckles, pushing against the underside with his tongue, trying to keep his teeth from giving more than a glancing scrape; his hand is wrapped around the base of Liam’s dick, matching the movements of his mouth.

Looking down, he watches the rhythmic rise and fall of the dark head as it works him over – it’s just too much. Liam feels like this is way too soon for it to end, he doesn’t want to be a disappointment, but he can’t hold out any longer, feeling like years of frustrations are being sated. Quick and dirty, but perfect. He tries to warn Zayn, but words fail him as his release crashes into him like a train. The first surge of come hits the back of the boy’s throat unexpectedly, and he struggles out of Liam's grip as he pulls away, choking a little, forced to swallow, coughing – Liam’s next pulse streaking down his cheek. Zayn gasps for breath as he uses his hand to stroke Liam through it, fast and hard.

Liam tries to stay quiet, not succeeding terribly well, but he knows there is probably no one else in this part of the building tonight, and the noise from the party should drown out any sounds they make.

As he regains control of himself, he finds there are a few strands of fragile black hair left in his hand, now that he has relinquished his hold on Zayn; he hopes that he didn’t go too far, but he doesn’t think that he did, feeling that he barely scratched the surface of what this beautiful boy craves.

Zayn is looking up at him, with such big, wide eyes, appearing so guileless and open, vulnerable even, seeking approval with a hunger that is heart wrenching. All his show of bravado and rebellion is gone now, and he is just a boy, kneeling at Liam’s feet, frantic and yearning. He has switched which hand is wrapped unmoving around his cock, now using the one wet with Liam’s come, his other hand holding on tight to Liam’s thigh, as he waits, as if seeking permission.

“That’s it, come for Daddy,” he finds himself murmuring, his initial embarrassment has withered and is a distant memory, as he strokes Zayn’s hair affectionately, further destroying the perfectly contrived style – glad to see the person beneath the image.

Zayn whines softly in his throat, so desperate for it; beating himself off now with a loss of control that Liam is gratified to have inspired. “Such a good boy,” Liam whispers, leaning over him, feeling a possessiveness that he knows he hasn’t earned yet, but indulging it anyway – he can allow himself this one perfect moment, whatever happens next.

The noises Zayn makes in response sound almost pained, rising out of him as he spasms hard, body taught, teeth digging into Liam’s thigh through his trousers, bringing a dull pain, saliva soaking through the material to his skin. Zayn almost sobs through his orgasm, his arm still bumping frantically against Liam’s calf as he keeps stroking himself, riding out every last morsel of pleasure.

Then, gasping as he stills, he lays his head against Liam’s thigh. He seems peaceful, eyes drifting closed, his warm breath ghosting over the sensitised skin of Liam’s dick – which makes him realise that he hasn’t bothered to dress himself again yet, too caught up in Zayn’s need.

Finally feeling too self-conscious now that they are still, their passion spent, Liam tucks himself back into his trousers. It rouses Zayn from his blissed out state, and he stumbles to his feet, pulling up his trousers. He wipes his mouth, then the incriminating white streak from his cheek with his hand, not meeting Liam’s eyes. He looks wrecked. _Don’t be embarrassed_ , Liam wants to plead, _or worse, ashamed…_ But he just points Zayn to the door leading to his private bathroom, and leaves him to it.

There is a telling wet spot on the floor by his chair, which he hopes the cleaners will quietly remove in the morning without asking any questions, and that his office no longer smells of sex by then. He knows how cutting office gossip can be and doesn’t want to deal with sly comments and whispers behind his back. Also, he fears there may be a suggestion of sexual harassment if he has to answer for this. 

While he waits, he retrieves the jacket left abandoned on the floor, making a futile attempt to smooth out the creases in the cheap polyester, and hangs it by his own.

When Zayn comes back a few minutes later, he looks almost presentable. He has styled his hair as best he could, neatened up the edges of his eyeliner, straightened out his clothes, and washed away all traces Liam had left on him. He almost wishes Zayn was back as he had been, looking well used, and decadent. 

Leaving the boy to stand around awkwardly, he goes to fix himself up in the bathroom too, before they face the world.

He moans softly at the relief of emptying his bladder after consuming far too much alcohol this evening, then washes his hands, running them under the cold water and splashing his face, the cool shock of it helping clear his mind and slow the rapid beating of his heart. He dabs himself dry and wipes the marks of his own semen that streak up his shirt and tie, then leans against the sink, looking at himself in the mirror; he looks different, wrung out, but more content than he has felt for a long time. Tonight was… unexpected. But not unwelcome. Not unwelcome at all.

As he takes in his appearance, he looks himself over appraisingly. His hair is still naturally full and chestnut brown, time has been kind to him thus far. Pushing it back from his face, he runs his fingers through it to put it back into some semblance of order. He keeps it is short and straight, attempting to keep his natural curls at bay, they are frustratingly boyish and he is always striving to project maturity. Fine lines are etched across his forehead from worrying and frowning too much, but he likes to think they add character. His skin is still lightly tanned from his last business trip overseas to sunnier climes, and his determined stubble is ever threatening to become a beard. He looks strong and capable; he thinks that he can perhaps see why he caught Zayn’s eye.

He can’t think of any way to give Zayn money for a taxi that won’t make it seem like he is paying the boy for his services, so he reluctantly decides to leave with him, hoping they can slip out unnoticed. He doesn’t want to deal with anyone else tonight – knowing that Zayn looks too much like his freshly fucked boy to fool anyone. They would think that Zayn is his latest acquisition – a thought that holds a certain disconcerting appeal.

They mostly manage to escape unseen, other than a disturbingly conspiratorial wink from the security guard as he lets them out the door. Then they stand under the awning, avoiding the rain that now pours down in torrents. The wind is bitter as it whips around them, and the boy shivers, rubbing his hands together to warm them, then pulling his jacket tighter around himself. Liam feels a protective urge that is new and worries him a little, as he presses close to the side of the slender figure, lending him his body heat, and shielding him from the elements.

As they wait for a taxi – longer than he had expected, there must be a high demand tonight due to the storm – Zayn lights himself a cigarette and offers one to Liam. This is something else he hasn’t done in a while, but he takes it, letting the boy light it for him, which he somehow gives a sexual undertone, as with everything he does.

So they stand in companionable silence, smoking and watching the rain, while in the distance a bolt of lightning shatters the sky, followed by a deep rumble of thunder, alleviating the oppressive heaviness of the night air.

All too soon they manage to hail a large black cab, stubbing their cigarettes out on the pavement before they huddle into the warmth and give the driver their addresses. Liam feels a moment’s guilty hesitation, but it’s a little late to worry about the boy knowing where he lives and causing him problems – he already has intimate knowledge of where Liam works.

They drop Zayn off first, at Liam’s suggestion, wanting to make sure the boy gets home safely. The taxi pulls up outside what was once a large Edwardian family home, and now seems to be student digs.

Asking the driver to wait, Liam gets out of the taxi first, then holds the door open for Zayn, closing it behind him. Zayn smirks at Liam’s old-fashioned gallantry, “Are you seriously walking me to my door?”

“Yes, I’m a gentleman. And shut up.” Liam smiles at the good-natured teasing, sliding his hand against the small of Zayn’s back as they make the short walk to the front door, which could use a lick of paint. Thankfully the rain has dwindled to a light shower, but they hurry down the path towards the relative cover of the porch.

Even illuminated only by street lights and the sharp curve of a crescent moon, he can imagine the noise and bustle that must pour out of the house in the daylight; a few of the mismatched curtains twitch as they approach, presumably wanting to see who has brought Zayn home tonight.

There are bikes left in the untidy front yard, and weeds poking determinedly up between the paving stones. He hazards a guess that Zayn hates it here. His speculations are interrupted as they reach their destination, and Zayn backs up against the red brick wall of the house, pulling Liam to him and kissing him goodnight with a deep yearning that Liam hadn’t expected, not wanting to let himself believe that he could hold the attention of someone like Zayn, who could have anyone.

Zayn relaxes into it, moaning softly as Liam takes control, sliding his hands around the boys waist and fucking his willing mouth gently with his tongue. When Liam breaks the kiss, Zayn flattens his hands against Liam’s chest and glances down, almost coy, idly tasting his own lower lip, before gifting him with that small devilish smile, a hopeful look in his eyes as they meet Liam’s again and he whispers, “So you don’t forget me.” Liam wants to tell him that he couldn't forget him if he tried – but he stays silent. It reminds him of some quote he read once, which claimed that the perfect relationship is where you both think you’re the lucky one. Then he tells himself he’s being an old fool.

Zayn’s hair has been flattened by the rain, the black kohl around his eyes running a little – it makes him look even younger. 

“I’d invite you in, but I have house-mates from uni,” his voice holds no affection for them, “and I don’t wanna deal with their interrogation tonight.”

“It’s fine, really.” And it is. Liam wants to go home and process tonight’s events – still not sure what to do about Zayn, whether to listen to his head or his heart.

He steps back, giving Zayn space as he hunts in his pockets, retrieving a pen and a scrap of paper torn from a notebook. Leaning it against the doorframe, he struggles in the dim light to scribble down his phone number, before pushing it into Liam’s hand.

"Call me," are Zayn's last words, sounding as if they are caught somewhere between a challenge and a plea, before he goes inside. Then the door closes and Liam hears it lock; but Zayn’s touch lingers, pressed into Liam’s skin – onto his lips.

He makes his way back to the taxi, lost in thought, not caring about the rain as it sneaks under his collar and drizzles down his back. Once inside the cab, he catches the disapproving look being directed at him in the rear view mirror and bites at his lip, feeling exposed and a little ridiculous now that he is alone.

The cab pulls away and they drive to a different London, where the real money lives. Telling himself that tonight was just a break from his real life, he winds down the window, the freezing air and frigid drops of hard rain streaking inside insidiously, as he balls the paper up in his fist and moves his hand to drop it out into the night, the cold hitting him hard like a bitter dose of unwelcome reality.

And yet… The call of youth and beauty is in the end too strong. He closes the window, smoothing the precious yet unassuming slip of paper out on his knee. It is slightly damp, and very crumpled, but he can still make out the scratched digits in the gloom. He knows that it was an empty dramatic gesture anyway, he can find out anything he wants to about the boy if he tries, it is one of the many advantages of money and influence.

So he folds it carefully and slips it into his pocket, watching the streets speed by as they near his building; a bold, ostentatious column of white and shimmering glass, shooting up into the sky, it makes the statement that he has made it, and he needs the world to know.

He will call the boy, and see what happens. He feels an excitement about an unknown future that he hasn’t felt in a long time; infinite possibilities unfurl their myriad paths in front of him. Decision made, he smiles to himself, wondering if perhaps it isn’t too late after all.

_**The end** _


End file.
